A Thesis On Love by The Mad and Morose
by RobinRocks
Summary: MercutioxRomeo. Set before the play begins. Romeo declares his undying love for Capulet’s niece Rosaline. Mercutio isn’t remotely impressed. Oneshot.


Okay, so, quick debriefing: This was a challenge set to me by **AutumnDynasty**, who once ventured into the realms of Shakespeare Slash herself with a HamletxHoratio (and returned pale and shaking and vowing "Never again!"). She said "Write Shakespeare Slash – any play, any pairing". I said "Okay, but I can tell you now that it will have Mercutio in it – and will therefore, by default, be _Romeo and Juliet_".

(Because everyone loves Mercutio, amirite?)

This is the result. It was actually written quite a while ago and sent to AutumnDynasty for betaing. For weeks and weeks it lay untouched on her hard-drive, one of the many reasons for this being that she actually hasn't read _Romeo and Juliet_, so… yeah, eventually I just said I'd post it without betaing.

Blah. I tried my best, but basically I am excusing myself in advance if the characterisation or dialogue or whatever is lousy. This has had no second opinion whatsoever. I tried to keep the dialogue as Shakespeare-y as possible (although it is most certainly not arranged in blank verse – apologies to all hardcore Shakespearers), but while I am an English Literature student, I am not an expert, so, you know, try not to take it too seriously. I mean no offence to the Bard or his works. :)

As for this… it's just plain old _Romeo and Juliet_. Not Baz Luhrmann's _Romeo + Juliet_. Not Gonzo's _RomeoxJuliet_. Not even Franco Zefirelli's pretty-accurate _Romeo and Juliet _(complete with guy-who-looks-freakily-like Zac-Efron…). This is simply Romeo and Mercutio as Shakespeare wrote them.

Just, you know, gayer.

;)

A Thesis on Love by the Mad and Morose

"Pray, what breeds in Romeo such melancholy?"

Romeo, sitting alone on the steps leading down from the back veranda of the house, observing – with no real commitment – the dusk-dusted gardens, glanced over his shoulder in surprise; he had heard no-one approach, and even if that was due simply to his being so lost in thought, the identity of the visitor only served to surprise him further still that said visitor had _managed_ to sneak up him so silently.

Oh, Mercutio was light of foot, but rather too much the fan of a spectacular entrance – he could usually be heard coming from a mile away, seeming to command commotion wherever he went.

"What bringst thou hither, good Mercutio?" Romeo asked genially in reply. "Dost thou seek Benvolio?"

"Oh, what should I want with Benvolio?" Mercutio said airily. "_Fair_ Benvolio, who seeks only to mind my manners for me? Ah, it may be true that they require minding, and truer still that I myself have no mind to mind them, but he concerns himself only with the mind that I may offend the minds of others, and I have no mind for _that_ – nor manners either, you may be sure."

Romeo laughed softly, amused by the wordplay, if not by the way that Mercutio had pulled his usual conjuring trick of appearing out of seemingly nowhere to demand his attention – and it seemed as though it was _his_ attention that he wanted right now, having ridiculed the absent Benvolio's peacemaking ways to entertain him.

"Nay, gentle Romeo," Mercutio went on, leaning over the stone balcony of the veranda, a few feet from where Romeo sat on the staircase, "I come seeking your company – or, at least, to do you the kindness of offering you mine."

"And by what conclusion dost thou suggest that I require any man's company, sir?" Romeo asked with a sour smile.

"The stars, the stars!" Mercutio cried mockingly, leaning his entire weight over the balcony and giving the impression of trying to reach for the first few stars, sprinkled low across the violet horizon. "The stars speak of Romeo's melancholia, and mourn for him in such a way that Verona's very streets sob, too!"

"Listen you to what stars say, Mercutio?"

"Not I, Sir Romeo, for stars say nothing." Mercutio looked at him, letting his arm drop. "Your parents sigh over you and ask "What is to be done with this Romeo?", and upon my entrance beseech me "Good Mercutio, you will find Romeo in no mood for conversation tonight, your time and determination is wasted". To think that I should be told that my time is wasted by Romeo, who will not speak! But hold! Here I find Romeo, indeed sunk beneath some sorrowful sea, so sunk that he cares not for my presence and instead tries to impress upon me the very conception that I, in his place, seek his cousin! Stars say nothing of this; but tell me, Romeo, dost thou indeed intend to waste my time? For I have better places to waste time, if not with stars."

"I intend not to waste your time," Romeo replied curtly, "so away, if it pleases you."

"I shall leave Romeo to his brooding if Romeo is kind enough to answer my question."

"I did not?"

"You did not, sir."

"What question was this?"

Mercutio gave a sigh and turned around, resting his elbows on the balcony and pressing the bend of his back to it, tipping his head back to look up at the darkening sky.

"I inquired what concocts in fair Romeo such misery," he sighed, "but perhaps my question was as wasted as my time, for thou seemst to be in conversational tones, at least, if not merry ones – that is enough for me."

"But I am not in tones of misery either," Romeo said, sounding a little surprised. "I am merely consumed by thoughts."

"And what dangerous thoughts consume Romeo, or is that a question too far, putting me in as much danger of my time being consumed as Romeo is consumed by thoughts?"

"If time is your issue, then spend it elsewhere."

"Ah, for Romeo is no willing merchant, but instead a philosopher!" Mercutio pushed upright again with a silvery little laugh. "Come, come, sell me thy thoughts, and I will pay handsomely with my time." He came over to the steps and stood on the first of them, his presence overbearing and obvious.

Romeo was silent for a long while, deliberating, entirely knowing what his friend's reaction would be to the answer he so desired.

"I am in love, Mercutio," he said finally, his voice quiet and rather terse.

"Oh, _Romeo_," Mercutio sighed in that exaggerated tone that Romeo had just _known_ he would employ, "thou art not in love, but instead in love with the very idea that thou art in love. Love does not bloom so many times in so many seasons in _any_ man."

"Truly I am in love," Romeo replied earnestly. "This is that very rose-red love by which poets and playwrights shape their art, which I have so long read and dreamed of but never had to call my own – and yet now it rests within me, and burns as wholly and unkindly as the sun."

"And now Romeo becomes such a poet, who seekest to sicken me further still with his sonnets." Mercutio gave another quick little sigh. "But I outwit myself – that is, my wit cuts down Romeo's words most cruelly before I have even a chance to consider what nonsense he speaks. A sonnet must be addressed to thy lady; I am no poet, but that much I claim to know. To whom is your burdened ballad addressed?"

"My lady… my lady's name is Rosaline."

"Thy lady's name is Capulet," Mercutio replied shortly, the name he recognised snapping him out of his somewhat-tolerant mood; and he nimbly took the steps two at a time, landing lightly on the grass.

"Peace, Mercutio!" Romeo hissed, glancing quickly over his shoulder back at the house. "It is to my knowledge that Rosaline is Capulet's niece, but to the degree of my love that I care not."

"Thou should avoid consorting with Capulets," Mercutio said, his voice subtly more savage. "It should greatly anger thy father, and thy lady's uncle, at that."

"Fear not," Romeo said flatly, resting his head in his hands. "Rosaline and I have not exchanged even a word of greeting."

"Then how knowest thou of love?" Mercutio barbed.

"I say that it should be impossible not to." Romeo stood, as though to make his declaration more dramatic. "Upon first sight of fair Rosaline was I taken captive by Cupid and by Aphrodite, and made to bow in reverence to her beauty at the altar of all that is herself—"

"No, no," Mercutio interrupted irritably, coming to the foot of the steps to look up at his lovesick friend. "Thou hath borrowed these things from books! Thy words are not thy own, marred by the curse of the learned!" He smiled with notable satisfaction. "Come, man, confess that thou know nothing of love, and pretend to do so only by robbing Petrarch."

"Well, then," Romeo said stiffly, "what knowest _thou_ of love, kind Mercutio?"

"I know nothing of love," Mercutio answered carelessly, "for there is nothing to know."

"That is an unfair answer."

"You think it unfair?" Mercutio's tone was more curious than his body language, for he turned away from Romeo once more, took three idle little running-steps across the grass and easily twisted his whole body into a complete cartwheel; he bowed to Romeo on straightening. "Then the truth is unfair," he finished, as though the little interlude hadn't taken place.

Romeo said nothing – simply watching his friend. Mercutio rarely stood still, no matter what kind of mood he was in, and so the fact that he was rather giving the impression of fooling around in high spirits right now didn't necessarily mean that his mood was a pleasant one. He was so very different to both Romeo (whom he declared too melodramatic for his own good) and Benvolio (whom he declared too passive for his own good) – even in looks, with his black hair a stark mismatch to Romeo's brown and Benvolio's blonde, and his preference for wearing reds or blacks or both together. He was wearing red now, and looked like the dying sun's final ember, lost in the Montague grounds as night set it.

Romeo wore blue and almost blended in.

Frankly, Romeo often wondered quite where Mercutio had _come_ from, for he didn't seem to be quite like anyone else in Verona. He was the kinsman of Prince Escalus, but didn't seem as though he should be; he was neither Capulet nor Montague, yet sided with Montagues in hating Capulets despite having no quarrel of his own with them. In fact, Mercutio was even unlike his own brother, Valentine – from the way he was built (small, slender, but deceptively strong) to his wild, musical behaviour to the fact that he was really—

(Romeo looked at him again)

—quite _mad_.

"So," Romeo said at length, deliberating over his phrasing, "it is thy consideration that love is a lie? That poets and playwrights and even dreamers tell of a thing which exists only in their tales?"

"Such is my faith," Mercutio agreed, "and so too should yours be. Love is the mere concoction—nay, _poison_ of poets. Too many times have I seen good Romeo succumb to the venom set in his veins by his learning – it is time that he partook of the antidote. If thou art hot-blooded for thy lady, then that is pardonable, for that is the way of men, but pray do not disguise it as _love_. Love is for fools. Does Romeo declare himself a fool?"

"No," Romeo said, folding his arms, "but I declare Mercutio bitter."

Mercutio looked at him in amusement.

"Bitter?" he repeated. "Sharp and bitter – that is thy accusation?" He gave a small nod. "Perhaps I am bitter, but only as bitter as poison. _That_, therefore, is why Romeo knows that I am bitter, for he knows the taste of his poison as well as any man shackled by marriage knows the pretext his wife will give for refusing him."

Romeo gave a sigh and unfolded his arms.

"Why wilt thou take nothing seriously?" he asked, though he didn't expect an answer; he walked away from the steps and back onto the veranda, making his way along it with his hand on the stone balcony.

"What is there to take seriously about thy poetic whimsies?" Mercutio asked by way of reply, walking level with him on the grass.

"You should not insult men as you do, Mercutio," Romeo snapped, "for some shall take thy cruelty less kindly than I."

"So the truth becomes cruel as well as unfair?" Mercutio asked, leaping up onto the balcony and holding onto the rail. "And on the subject of what is fair and unfair, perhaps I should be more inclined to take thy ominous warning sincerely if thou were not so bent upon thine own destruction."

"How dost thou mean?" Romeo asked, stopping.

Mercutio leaned closer to him over the rail, smirking.

"Thy _poison_, sir," he said, his usual excitement colouring his lyrical voice. "I declare that I see Romeo giving his very _life_ for what he calls love! Is that not what makes a fool? If not Rosaline then some other moon-faced maid, for that is Romeo's poison – perfected by poets and bottled in books, sold to fools such as thyself! Are they not alchemists, promising gold which they cannot make? Your love is mere Fool's Gold—"

"_Mercutio_, be still!" Romeo grabbed him by the shoulders, interrupting him by giving him a little shake. "Again you mock love and say that it exists not, but dost thou not _make_ it real by mocking it?"

"Perhaps," Mercutio sighed, calmed again; so calm, in fact, that he went almost completely limp in Romeo's grip. "…Dost thou consider me mad?"

"Nay, not mad," Romeo replied quietly, still holding his friend more-or-less up as he arched himself backwards again to look up at the rapidly-darkening sky.

"What shall mad Mercutio speak?" Mercutio murmured, more to himself. "Nothing of love, for Romeo will hear not of it—"

"Thou art not mad," Romeo said again, his voice firmer.

"So Romeo says," Mercutio declared, suddenly injecting life back into himself; he pulled himself free, apparently having the intention to fall backwards from the balcony onto the grass, but Romeo grabbed his right wrist, halting him and holding his balance. "…But is that what Romeo thinks?" Mercutio went on, laughing again, putting his feet back on the veranda through the bars of the balcony and swinging on Romeo's hold on him.

"Doth Mercutio wish to be thought of as mad?" Romeo asked irritably, pulling at him, trying to reign him back in.

"I care not for what is thought of me," Mercutio said happily. "Let them think me mad, for at least I am alive, and not Cupid's captive, or whatever thou consider thyself."

"Come, Mercutio," Romeo snapped, ignoring his jibes and, with a sudden heave, pulling him upright. "Let us retire, for it grows dark."

"At last! Romeo speaks sense!" Mercutio put his hands on the balcony again, holding himself up so that Romeo no longer had to. "But first I propose a trade, for I shall feel that you did indeed waste my time if I receive nothing for my trouble."

Romeo thought this rather hypocritical, since _Mercutio_ had been the one wasting his _own_ time by performing cartwheels and swinging off the balcony like a little boy, but gave a tired nod.

"What wouldst thou have of mine?" he asked jadedly.

"I shall give thou thy belief that I am not mad in return for thy love," Mercutio said, and before Romeo had even made any sense of what he'd said, he leaned over the balcony again and kissed him on the mouth.

Romeo was too stunned to even push him off.

"That is fair," Mercutio said on breaking it a long moment later. "In return for receiving nothing, I have given thou nothing."

"Thou callst that _nothing_?" Romeo asked in a low voice, wiping his mouth.

"Indeed, for it was a token of what thou callst love," Mercutio replied, grinning at him. "Both sides of the trade were lies – thy belief that I am not mad and thy love. If I shall not speak of love, then I shall speak of lies."

"I said that thou art _not_ mad!" Romeo blazed as Mercutio easily climbed over the balcony wall to land on his side of the veranda.

"That _is_ what thou _said_," Mercutio agreed pleasantly. "But if fair Romeo is unsatisfied by my calling my kiss nothing, then he can instead consider it an omen of his poisoning."

"Kiss of death?"

"If he wishes." Mercutio sauntered past him back along the veranda towards the house.

"Then…" Romeo whirled, watching him go. "Then thou hath condemned us both!"

Mercutio stopped, looked back at him and laughed.

"Ah, Romeo," he said, "thou takest all so seriously – even love. I fear it shall be the death of thee."

"Love?" Romeo asked.

"Nay," Mercutio replied nonchalantly. "_Nothing_."

* * *

End. Yay. :)


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